


White Night

by vaarsuvius



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Red String of Fate, Reincarnation, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaarsuvius/pseuds/vaarsuvius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even though each time, I know I'll see you again, I always wonder: is this the last time? Is that really you?" - tongari, 25 lives. Waver Velvet finds that if two souls are truly destined to be together, they will always find their way back to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You have a bad habit of daydreaming. When you make an effort to control it, usually when you’re teaching a class, it’s fairly easy, but the instant you let yourself go your eyes take on a far-off look that would make your students laugh if they ever saw it. You’re walking quickly across a footbridge on your way home and in the daydream veil that covers your eyes you see a different bridge that drives you to walk even faster.

You said you would live on. You promised. And you have, in all but a few respects. You’ve tried your best to make your king proud. You think he’d be proud of you no matter what, in the end, but you’ve tried very hard anyway. You imagine sometimes what he would say to you if he knew how far you’d come. That you’d finally gained some modicum of notoriety among Clock Tower mages, that you’d gained an entirely unwanted reputation along with it. That you’d had a hand in ending this whole Grail farce once and for all.

Dismantling the Grail was necessary, and you knew that, and yet. You wonder if some part of it didn’t get into your head at that time. The ‘what if’s keep you up at night. You’re fully aware you were very much responsible for effectively destroying the only object powerful enough to ever bring you to your king’s side again. The box containing your relic lies at the very back of your closet, nothing more than a dusty rag at this point for all the good it will ever do you now. You can’t say you never had a faint hope. You can’t say you didn’t know full well that dismantling the Grail would snuff it out for good.

You blame the mages, at first, when the regret strikes you. That always devolves quickly into blaming yourself. For everything, really. Sometimes you wonder if Rider would have gotten his wish if you’d just let Kayneth have him in the first place. Logic dictates that, considering the way Kayneth handled Lancer, the answer is no. It’s easy to tell yourself that, harder to believe it. 

Rider never would have let you beat yourself up like this, but the shade of him that you summon in your mind to encourage yourself when things get bad seems to fade with every passing day. Sometimes you wonder if the vision of him in your mind is anything like reality at all. In ten years, it’s become harder and harder to tell. The memories don’t so much slip away from you as they warp and bend until you can’t differentiate between what really happened or what you imagined.

The daydreaming probably makes it worse. You conjure up idealized versions in your head every day. It’s nothing like what Rider would have wanted you to do. When you do it you’re living in the past, not even the real past but a fake, rose-tinted version that only makes you feel better for a few moments before leaving you emptier than before. A waste of time, you’re aware, time that could be spent glorifying Rider’s real memory instead of clutching at ghosts. And yet it’s hard to stop.

Ten years later and you still see flickers of scarlet at the edges of your vision when you walk down a crowded street, still do a double-take when any larger-than-average figure crosses your field of vision. It’s a sickness. There are probably pills for it that you, against better judgment, refuse to even consider taking. You know it’s not weakness to seek help, you know Rider would never begrudge you assistance. But in truth you know it has nothing to do with that. You can’t give up even the passing delusion.

When you finally come out on the other side of the bridge you feel immediately a bit relieved. You don’t see him coming. He hits you with all the force and subtlety of a truck. It’s an accident, and it’s your fault, and you have no intention of admitting it. “Fuck,” you say eloquently, and then you look him in the eyes and you wonder if you’re not still daydreaming.

“You alright?” he asks with a rumbling, carrying voice that feels like an earthquake. Slackjawed, you notice that he’s not standing at full height--he’s crouched down to make sure you’re okay. Legs straightened, you think he’s at least a foot taller than you. You feel weak.

“Fuck,” you say again and when he smiles you think maybe you actually died when he ran into you and this is the afterlife. What a death. Run down in public by a giant apparition. Your students will laugh. Just thinking about that reminds you to contort your face back into its ever-present scowl, in case someone’s watching, in case you’re actually alive and this isn’t some kind of coma dream, or another hallucination.

“What a face,” he says, grinning. You scowl more, driving the lines deeper into your brow. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Your tailbone is probably bruised from when he knocked you flat on the cement but you curl your lip and say “No.” You fumble around in your pockets, trying at once not to look up at the man in front of you and to find the cigarettes you have stashed away. You dearly need one right now.

It takes you seven tries to light your cigarette with your shaking hands. Your hallucinations have obviously reached a peak. Maybe you really should see a doctor. You’ve turned around to leave the whole affair behind you when the giant with burgundy hair and skin like milk tea calls to you, “By the way, who’s ‘Rider?’” and your blood turns to ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is inspired by the concept of reincarnation cycles, of the red string of fate, of souls destined to be together. The comic 25 lives referenced in the summary, which I feel is one of the best depictions of this concept, can be found here: http://s2b2.livejournal.com/142934.html
> 
> Fic is titled after the song by the same name by Nell, which I listened to about a thousand times while writing this. An English translation of the lyrics can be found here: http://www.kpoplyrics.net/nell-white-night-lyrics-english-romanized.html


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for casual ableist language, due to how waver tends to refer to rider.

His name is Emir, as you discover during an extremely strange conversation where you find out that while being thrown to the ground you breathed a name you haven’t said in years to a complete stranger who talks to you like an old friend anyway. Not so much of a stranger anymore, you suppose, since you have each other’s numbers in your phones now for some fucking reason. Perhaps because you wanted something concrete to prove he was real.

You’ve had your game paused for an hour. You booted it up to try and forget about the bizarre events of the day, but played only about 5 minutes before pausing it and lying back on your futon, staring at the ceiling. You don’t realize you’ve been daydreaming again until your phone buzzes. The time on it says you’ve been checked out from reality for about half an hour, the message reads ‘wats up :).’ It’s from Emir, obviously. No one ever texts you. The only other people with your personal number are Rin Tohsaka and your adopted parents, and neither of them have gotten the hang of texting yet.

‘nm’ you text back, trying to deter him. Now that you’re not looking him in the eye the strange tugging feeling in your stomach has left, replaced your burgeoning flicker of hope with a bit of fucking sense. Also, it’s weird to contact a total stranger literally predicated on the fact that they look like someone who is, for all intents and purposes, your dead ex. Definitely weird, and you don’t want to be that kind of weird. Even if it is his fault, for looking exactly like him basically, and talking like him, and having the same stupid laugh. There’s silence from your phone for at least 10 minutes and you’re beginning to think you’ve succeeded when it buzzes again.

‘lord el melloi ii is a rly long name to put in my contacts, do u have anything shorter lol’

Your eye twitches in mild irritation as you try to come up with a clever and cutting response. You try for a full minute before capitulating. ‘waver,’ you text back.

‘is that rly ur name or is that ur idea of a cryptic response’ comes the immediate reply.

‘thats my name’ you fire back, adding a ‘take it or leave it.’

He sends you a surprised looking emoji, then a laughing one. You don’t know how to respond to that, so you put your phone down and start your game back up. It’s not until you wake up the next morning that you see he sent you another message.

‘’rider’ is a weird name too, thats the guy u said ‘i thought u were someone i knew’ right’

You’re immediately jolted from your just-woken fog and your stomach gnaws at itself. You make yourself a cup of instant coffee with a shot of booze in it before you reply.

‘his name was alexei, rider was just a nickname.’ You consider leaving it at that, but something drives you to add, ‘can u not ask me about him.’ You’re expecting him to text you back making fun of you, but a response comes in seconds. 

‘no problem, sry’

You already had a response prepared for a mocking reply. This catches you off guard. You put some leftovers in the microwave and type impulsively, ‘he was this guy i knew when i was younger. he was a big stupid idiot who did stupid idiot things like he was the biggest fucking idiot i ever met. he was so fucking stupid. but anyway he got in an’

You pause here, wondering what to put as your breath hitches against your will. ‘he got in an accident,’ you finally decide, ‘you look a lot like him so thats why i was so surprised. pretty stupid right.’ You hit send before you can decide it was a bad idea to spill your soul to a random guy.

Your phone doesn’t buzz again for a good several minutes and you start to panic. You take the leftovers out before they’re hot and chew on the lukewarm greasy noodles to give yourself something to do so you don’t flip the fuck out. You bite your tongue when you see the reply finally appear.

‘i dont think thats stupid.’ The little ‘...’ appears on the screen to signify he’s typing more and you don’t breathe until the new message appears. ‘sry to make u talk about it’

‘its ok’ you text back quickly. It’s not really okay, but whatever. You’ve never really told anyone about what happened with Rider. Tohsaka knows only the vague details, and that’s about it. How a near-stranger managed to coax the information out of you, you’re not sure. It all came flooding out of you in a rush that felt at once terrifying and liberating.

Funny thing about ‘tell the world of your king’--telling everyone you charged into battle with Alexander the Great in the 21st century is a fairly good way to get kicked out of a teaching position at the very least. On top of that, you’ve always been a fairly private person when it comes to your problems, preferring to deal with them on your own rather than burden anyone else. Rider was the only person you ever opened up to about your worries, and even then only because he nearly forced you.

You know Glen and Martha would be more than open to talking with you about anything at all, but they’re getting on in years. You would feel guilty dumping your baggage on them. The last thing they need is to hear that Alexei, who as far as they know is backpacking around the Mediterranean right now (according to your emails), has actually been dead for ten years. So you carry it all on your own.

You’re almost ashamed that you told Emir. Almost ashamed that you feel a little lighter when you get up to toss your dishes in the sink. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Emir' is an Arabic name derived from the term 'amara,' to command or rule.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same content warning for casual ableist language.

You don’t contact Emir again for a month. You wake up in the dead of the night drenched in sweat with a dream of a great bridge filled with chains burned into your eyelids. The emptiness of your apartment seems to close in around you and all you want is to not feel alone for a second. The Mackenzies would probably be awake to call right now in Fuyuki, but the last thing you want to do is make them worry by calling them on the edge of a panic attack. You’d never dream of calling Tohsaka like this. You call Emir.

You don’t expect him to pick up, in fact by the second ring you’re starting to reconsider, but before you can hang up the ringing stops. “Hi,” you say, voice ragged and gritty from sleep.

“Waver?” The familiar voice immediately calms you down. You don’t think about how strange it is to qualify a voice you’ve heard all of once as ‘familiar.’

“Yeah,” you say, “Sorry for calling you at fucking 2 am.”

A booming laugh sounds from your tinny speakers and you feel simultaneously comforted and like you want to cry. “No problem, I was up anyway.”

“What the fuck are you doing up at 2 am?” you ask, finding strength in your voice again.

“I should ask you the same thing.”

“I had a bad dream. Your turn.”

“Bad dream? That’s why you called me, I assume? Oh, and I was playing a game and lost track of time.”

“What game?” you ask, ignoring his question. You almost expect him to answer ‘admiral grand tactics’ as if this were some kind of fucking twilight zone, but he tells you he’s playing some kind of online game instead, which soothes the superstitious part of you.

“I like solo games better myself,” you say, a touch haughtily.

“Multiplayer is fun! It’s much more satisfying to beat a real person than a computer. Better challenge!”

You smile a little and talk to him about games for a while. You find out he likes strategy games and action games and is apparently a minor celebrity in an esports league. You wonder why he sticks to esports, when he’s built like a fucking ox. When there’s a lull, you say, “Sorry for calling you so late. I just needed somebody to talk to for a bit. You can hang up if you want.”

“And if I don’t want?”

You laugh in spite of yourself. “Hang up anyway, idiot, I have a class to teach in the morning, I can’t stay up all night talking to some video game freak.”

“Can you stay up all day after class, then?” Your mouth goes a little dry.

“I could probably do that. Or…” You hesitate, then say, “Or we could meet up for real.”

“Sure!” He sounds childishly excited and your lips twitch in the semblance of a smile. “Your place or mine?”

“Idiot,” you say again, “I was talking about somewhere public.”

“Like a cafe?”

“Or a bar.” You can practically hear him grinning over the phone. It makes you feel warm and tingly. You’re glad you’re on the phone so no one can see the stupid face you’re making in the dark.

“I trust you know a good one?”

“Several. I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you then!”

“See you.”

You have a hard time falling back asleep, but when you finally do the nightmares don’t plague you anymore. In the morning you wake up with the smell of the sea lingering in your head, and a swell of anticipation in your breast.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same warning for casual ableist language.

Spending more time with Emir, you begin to pick out differences between him and Rider. Emir has darker, wider eyes and his muscle is that of a man who works hard for a living but doesn’t work out. His accent is different too--he’s not Greek, he’s the son of Turkish immigrants and speaks only English and some broken Spanish. The fact that they’re not entirely the same person like you thought at first is comforting.

He laughs the same though, and when you let your guard down and lean against him while you’re watching documentaries on your futon together, his great, warm presence grounds you the same. When you accidentally fall asleep on his shoulder one night and wake up with his oversized jacket over you and dreams still clinging to your eyelids, his silhouette against the window is as blinding as an eclipse. For half a moment you’re in Fuyuki again and when Emir shifts and the moment breaks you have to turn away. You’re almost thirty, almost as old as Rider was when he left. You can’t be seen crying.

One night Emir brings over a bottle of good liquor and you take ‘enjoy life to the fullest’ to a potentially damaging extent. Impulsively, you pull a dusty shoebox out from the back of your closet and thrust it into his hands, saying “Look.”

He opens it obligingly. Inside are a collection of old, mundane objects. A branded promotional shirt, about forty sizes too big. A set of aging roadmaps for a city in Japan. 10 years overdue library books--atlases, ancient histories. A torn piece of scarlet cloth, once luxurious, now on the verge of crumbling at a touch. You’re the one who decided, in a drunken stupor, that it would be a good idea to dredge up the past, but even then you’re not prepared to deal with the agonizing pang that shoots through you when you see it. You haven’t looked at these since you put them away 10 years ago, didn’t even open the box when you moved it from Fuyuki to here.

Emir handles the box reverently. He’s not as drunk as you. “Are these his things?” he asks calmly. You nod. He checks the tag on the shirt. “Same size as me,” he remarks. You nod again. Your throat feels closed over; words escape you. You watch as he sifts through the remaining contents of the box. “On the Nature of Alexander,” he reads off the cover of a book. “The Iliad.” Your breath comes shallow and fast. “Fuyuki?”

“I used to live there,” you say at last, barely above a whisper. “We used to live there.” Emir pauses, giving you space, but you’re at a loss again. He doesn’t put you on the spot, just turns back to look at the last item in the box.

“What is this?” he asks.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Emir shrugs. “I probably would,” he says, but leaves it at that. He closes the box and in an instant it you can breathe again.

With breath come the words. “It’s really stupid,” you say suddenly. “I only knew the guy for, what, a week? Less than a month. It’s so stupid. I’m still so fucking fucked up over this shit that happened ten fucking years ago. I knew him for a fucking week and then he fucking died. He came into my life and turned everything upside down and then left me and told me I had to live on. What kind of shit is that? I was 19 years old. I thought I was an adult and I had everything figured out. He was stupid and I was stupid too.”

You inhale deeply and don’t look at Emir’s face. He’s probably looking at you like you’re crazy. Which you are, probably. You never let any psychiatrists touch you, though you’ve been recommended plenty. There’s no pills you could take that would fix what happened to you. When you dissociate from yourself, lose time, stumble into flashbacks that leave you gasping and heaving, you think PTSD, probably, if you had to put a name to it.

“When I was 19,” you start again, “I was ready to die. Everything was so fucked up. I thought maybe if I put my life on the line it would make things better. I thought dying would be one last ‘fuck you’ to everyone who had laughed at me. Like if I went out in a blaze of glory it would make people respect me. And then this guy, this idiot, comes along and tells me different, tells me it’s worth it to be alive, and tells me I’m better than all of it, all the shit that happened. I really believed him, and then he left.”

You bury your face in your hands, tugging at your hair in exasperation. “It’s not that I don’t still believe him. I think I’m a lot better now, and I think it’s because of him. But you don’t have that kind of impact on someone’s life without leaving scars.”

After that you can’t think of anything else coherent to say and settle for muttering _‘stupid, stupid, stupid,’_ into your cupped hands. You deny the reality that Emir is there as if to postpone the inevitable embarrassment that’s sure to come if only you look at his face. Confusion, probably, or pity, you’re not sure which would be worse.

He puts his hand on your shoulder. You’re bigger than you were ten years ago--taking testosterone helped--but you still feel engulfed. It’s not entirely unpleasant. You don’t look at him still, but you scoot over on the couch and let him hold you. You don’t cry, can’t find it in yourself to do anything more than tremble slightly. His heartbeat is loud against your ear and you listen to it until you stop thinking.

“Sorry,” you finally say. “That was weird. Don’t let me get drunk again.”

“I don’t know if I could stop you,” Emir says with a hint of a laugh. You smile in spite of yourself and look up at him, finally. He’s smiling too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is... the smut chapter... enjoy (also same warning for casual ableist language)

“This is nostalgic,” you say absently. You’re leaned up against the solid bulk of Emir’s back as he struggles to figure out the mechanics of your favorite video games. He cocks his head and looks at you quizzically.

“Nostalgic?” he repeats. “We’ve only been dating for three months.”

It’s your turn to be surprised, now. “Dating? Are we dating?” You put down your book and face Emir.

“Are we not?” He seems genuinely confused and you feel almost bad, like you led him on somehow. Or like you led yourself on.

“I just--” You struggle to find the right words. “I mean, we can be, if you want, we are, if you want, I didn’t--we haven’t even kissed or anything like that.”

Emir frowns, but playfully. “Small-minded!” he says, and pinches your cheek good-naturedly. It makes your heart twinge. “Dating is more than kissing, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” you say. “Now I feel like an idiot.” You take on a sulking posture, mildly embarrassed for being so caught up in your little months-long flashback pity party that you didn’t notice that yeah, you were basically dating. Not that the idea didn’t have its appeal, just. You’d never gotten that far with Rider. There wasn’t time. That’s your entire frame of reference for intimate human relations. One frenzied, traumatic, wonderful week in Fuyuki, Japan.

Emir punches you lightly in the arm and you wake up from your introspection to smack him away. Nostalgic. He catches your wrist, though, and you find yourself trapped in the tiny space between Emir and the futon, pinned.

“Oh,” is all you can say, and he grins.

“Your face is red,” he teases, releasing you and sitting just out of reach. You want to pull him back but that would be like giving in. You pout instead, and he laughs boisterously. “Is there something you want?”

“Of course not,” you say venomously. It’s taking all your strength to play the part of grumpy professor. “Why would I want anything from you?” Your lips quirk.

“I won’t do anything unless you tell me you want me to,” he says, and for all the banter you two exchange, you can hear the truth behind the words and it makes your chest ache with warmth.

Dropping all pretenses of argument you shift forward and wrap your arms around Emir’s neck and kiss him chastely, then again, longer. His hands rest at the small of your back and hold you when you pull away.

“You’ve never kissed anyone before, have you?”

Your face turns red in indignation. “What makes you think that?” you say, realizing how pitiful the words sound as soon as they leave your mouth. “I mean--there’s nothing wrong with that, not that it’s true, I kissed a girl in high school, and I found the experience generally unpleasant, after that I--”

Emir silences you and kisses you in a way nothing like the girl from high school, in a way that leaves you breathless and with nothing to do but fumble at his shirt and hair for something to hold on to. You’re aware you’re making the most embarrassing expression when he stops and cups your face in his hands, pushing your hair back gently, but you can’t find it in you to compose yourself.

“Oh,” you say again, then, “Fuck.”

“Is that a request?” Suddenly there’s not a hint of jest in his voice, replaced now by something that makes your stomach twist in want. You’re keenly aware now of your positioning, half in Emir’s lap, half wedged up against the folded futon leaning against the wall. You don’t say anything for what feels like a long time.

“I,” you say, “I. Not that it matters, but I haven’t--I haven’t.”

“Not with Rider?”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head. “I was only 19, and he was… older. I don’t think he would have taken advantage of that even if I asked him to. I mean, maybe, if I had asked. But I never asked.” There’s an unspoken ‘if only’ there that Emir doesn’t miss. He smooths back your hair and kisses you again. A soft sound escapes your throat when he fits his hands around your waist and tugs you into his lap. 

“You never answered my question,” he murmurs, inches away from your face.

“Stupid,” you say back with a scowl. “Get on with it.”

He obliges, tightening his grip on your waist enough to make you gasp. His beard scratches your skin when he kisses your lips, jaw, throat. You don’t know what to do with your hands. You’re certain you’ll screw this up somehow, but Emir asks nothing from you but your consent, seems content to drive you into stunned incoherence without asking for anything in return.

Rucking your shirt up, touching your stomach, Emir pauses. He runs his fingers over twin lines of uneven skin crossing your ribcage and your heart freezes. In a soft voice, he asks, with no malice, “Were you hurt?”

You don’t know how to respond. You shake your head no but can’t meet his eyes. “Cosmetic surgery,” you say, hoping he’ll get the hint. His brow furrows in confusion and you sigh. You were hoping to put this conversation off as long as possible. “I used to have… breasts. And now I don’t. That’s what the scars are from. I also…” You pause, feeling sick with apprehension. This is one of many reasons you’d never tried to do this with anyone else. You’re scared Emir will think you’re a freak and leave you, or worse. “I don’t have a dick either. Hope that’s okay.” It comes out faltering and thin.

“Do I need a condom, then?” is all he says, with genuine concern. “I don’t know if I’m ready for kids right now.” You look up and his smile melts your worries instantaneously.

“No,” you say, “You big idiot. My uterus hasn’t worked properly in years. Unless you have some kind of disease I don’t know about?”

“I don't, but is that the kind of guy you think I am, that I wouldn't tell you if I did?” he asks, mock offended. That gives you pause. No, you don’t think he’s that kind of guy, but you’re not sure where you got that idea. You worry it’s because you think Rider wouldn’t, and you’re projecting. Again. When you think about it, you don’t actually know what kind of guy Emir is, you only know what kind of guy you think he is.

Emir is no king of conquerors. He’s a construction worker who lives in a one bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city. He’s poor, always has been, and has never been anywhere outside of England besides a few visits to his extended family in Istanbul. Most of his ‘conquering’ he does vicariously--you’ve discovered he’s a minor celebrity in his online games and has placed in a few tournaments. But that’s about it. Not exactly comparable to uniting half the known world.

Both of you never questioned the fact that you immediately clicked, knew instinctively what each other liked or disliked. It’s worked out pretty well so far. The only fights you’ve had have been petty squabbles over what to watch on Netflix, or misunderstanding Emir’s often cryptic use of emojis. It unsettles you, though. It all seems too easy, too convenient. Perhaps the Grail War trained you to immediately mistrust things, or perhaps you’re just paranoid.

“Waver?”

Emir’s voice breaks through your reverie. You realize you’ve let your concerns show on your face. He looks down at you with such raw adoration you immediately feel terrible for doubting him.

“I do know you,” you say. You lean into his chest so you don’t have to look him in the eyes. “I do know what kind of guy you are. Fuck. This sounds so stupid, I’ve only known you for a few months. It’s not… logical. More like a feeling I get when I’m near you.”

“Nostalgic,” he affirms. “That’s what you said to me. I think I understand what you mean.” His voice rumbles from his chest through your whole body. You feel dizzy, but in a nice way.

“Fuck me,” you mumble into his t-shirt, half to yourself and half to him. His responding laugh reverberates in your bones. You want to scold him but he holds you by the waist and grinds his thigh between your legs and you shut up.

He’s gentle with you, which you appreciate secretly; you’re glad you told him this is your first time. He opens you up on his fingers until you quiver and beg, stuttering, for him to please fucking get on with it before you lose it then and there. He smirks at you but you can’t bring yourself to be angry with the fraying remains of your composure.

Emir pulls you bodily into his lap and handles you as easily as one would a doll. The thought of being at the mercy of that kind of strength makes you at once terrified and horribly aroused. You’re almost entirely helpless, but in a way it’s nice. Emir takes all the pressure to perform off of you, essentially letting you sit back and enjoy the ride. So to speak. 

In the end it turns out you would barely be capable of being an active participant even if you wanted to, with how completely he undoes you. Jacking off by yourself is nothing compared to the sensation of being utterly and completely filled, over and over until it feels like your nerves are all going to burn out from overstimulation.

“Wait,” you breathe, and for a moment you think maybe he didn’t hear you, or--and the thought chills you--that he ignored you. But he does stop, lets you disentangle yourself from him for a moment. “I need…” you start, stop. “I need. I need to breathe for a minute.”

“Take your time,” he says, looking at you with a smug grin plastered on his face, but an unmistakable tenderness in his eyes.. You think of what a mess you must look. Your throat feels dry from all the helpless, delirious whimpering you’ve been doing--you cast about for the cup of water you were drinking earlier. Finding it on the windowsill, you take a long drink. The initial overstimulation slowly ebbs away, replaced by a pleasant sort of mild soreness.

“I think I’m okay now,” you say, “Sorry about that.” Emir shakes his head and you see that he’s unfolded your futon on the floor and is sitting beside it. He pats it invitingly and you scowl. “If you think I’m just going to lie down for you,” you grumble while doing it anyway, “you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

“Only as much as you,” he says affectionately. You feel a bit less surrounded like this, more able to breathe if a little more physically strained as he lifts you by the hips and you rest your legs on his massive shoulders. When he enters you at this angle it feels so different--pleasurably so--that you can’t stop yourself from crying out in surprise. Immediately embarrassed you clap your hands over your mouth to keep any other humiliating sounds from escaping you.

Emir frowns at you. “I liked that,” he says simply. “You won’t let me hear more?” You think your face will burn off with how hot it feels. He reaches down and tugs--doesn’t force--your wrists down. Turning your face into the pillow you let him.

“Idiot,” you wheeze, to a bark of laughter in response. You dig your fingers into the sheets instead, holding tight so you won’t instinctively gag yourself again--and you almost do when he rolls his hips into you and you keen. When you look up Emir’s eyes are closed and he’s biting down on his lip. You feel a strange swell of pride realizing that the sounds you find embarrassing he seems to find unspeakably arousing.

When Emir shifts his grip on you and presses his fingers against your skin just there you can’t take it anymore. You let out a choked sob and arch up off the futon. Emir bends you almost in half so he can stroke the sweaty strands of hair back from your face as he fucks you through your climax. He kisses you and you can’t do anything but breathe rapidly through your nose and jerk against him erratically.

In moments Emir lets out a long sigh against your shoulder and rolls to the side before he crushes you with his weight. You lie next to him and just breathe for a long time. You stand up when the sticky wetness dripping down your thighs begins to feel more gross than erotic.

“You look nice like that,” Emir remarks mildly, and you want to slap him but then kiss him after. You don’t do either, though, only grab two wrinkled towels from a laundry basket and throw one at him so you don’t have to look at the wicked face he makes when he thinks he’s been particularly witty.

“You’d better shower,” you call over your shoulder, “There’s no fucking way I’m sleeping with you like that.” It’s not until after you shower that you realize he’s fallen asleep with the towel clutched against him like a very small blanket, and you decide maybe there is some fucking way you’re sleeping with him like that after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> casual ableist language warning, again.

“What is this?”

You have Emir over today to help tidy up your apartment so you can buy a bigger bed--Emir sleeps over more often than not now and your current one nearly buckles every time Emir so much as looks at it. There’s a cache of old papers buried underneath the bed, shoved into cardboard boxes and covered in dust. You sneeze.

“What is what?”

“This.” Emir thrusts a sheaf of papers into your hands. They’re notes, scrawled in a spidery, frantic hand--your notes on the original El Melloi’s research, the ones you eventually compiled into the tome that earned you your title. Emir doesn’t know exactly what it is you do, only that you’re a teacher. You told him you teach history and mythology, and he left it at that. It sounded perfectly plausible, considering the shelves and shelves of lore that take up the better part of your wall space; a bit of Celtic and Old English here and there, but predominantly Greek. You have 11 different translations of the Iliad alone, and two tiny copies, annotated and highlighted, of the Epic of Gilgamesh tucked into one side.

What Emir has handed you looks like nothing resembling history. It’s a lot of equations that don’t make sense by any non-magical system of numbers, several carefully drawn magic circles that probably look satanic. It’s part of Kayneth’s mystic code, the one that’s currently powering a maid-shaped golem in your office. Flipping through a few pages, you find an absent doodle you did that gives you pause. Emir points at it, specifically. It looks like a stylized sword with wings and it makes you feel numb to look at.

“This,” he says again. “I don’t know what any of the other stuff means, but I’ve seen this little drawing five times already today. What is it?”

You snatch the papers away from him and stuff them into a box with more force than necessary. “It’s nothing,” you say, “Don’t be nosy.” You immediately regret the words once they come out of your mouth. Emir never looks _hurt_ , per se, but you know he can be hurt by you, and he just won’t show it. He likes to play the part of the steady rock to hold on to, which is nice in theory but in practice denies him the ability to be open with you.

You’re aware of this fact and don’t know what to do about it. The only way you can tell if he’s upset is if, days after whatever one-sided argument you may have had, he hasn’t texted you at all. That’s it. When you finally text him, he acts like nothing happened. You treat him like a punching bag sometimes. You yell at him a lot, lash out over petty things. Usually he takes it well and with a knowing smile. Other times he just stays silent. This is one of those times.

Emir has never so much as raised his voice at you in anger. Sometimes you think you push him so hard in a subconscious effort to get him to hit back, metaphorically. To soothe your conscience, to tip the imagined scales back towards the middle. Maybe you want to prove to yourself that he’s human, that there’s limits to him as well, that you’re not the only one that doesn’t have a one-hundred percent handle on their emotions. It’s comforting that Emir seems unshakable, but at the same time it makes you feel weak by comparison.

“I already tell you more than I should about my past,” you say in a voice deceptively calm, regretting the words with each one that comes but unable to stop. “Why should you get to know everything about me?” Emir doesn’t answer, just looks at you with an unreadable expression that makes your heart sink. “Look,” you say, “There’s just a lot of things I can’t tell you right now, or maybe ever. Okay? Is that okay?”

“Why?” he says. Nothing else, no qualifiers, just. Why. And it hurts you to think about. You want to tell him. Really, desperately, you do. But.

“I can’t,” is all you say. _Why._ It echoes in your head. “You would think I’m… crazy. Even I think I’m crazy, sometimes. I don’t want you to look at me like that.”

Hesitating, you look up at Emir. He looks thoughtful. You’re not sure if he’s angry, or upset; in reality he mostly just looks confused. “Why would I think you’re crazy?” he finally says, cocking his head to the side. He strokes his stubble thoughtfully and you have to fight to control a slightly delirious laugh from bubbling up from your chest. “I don’t think you have any reason to make up a grand lie for me.” 

He says it so simply, like he says everything. He’s not held back like you, doesn’t bite his tongue on all his words, doesn’t twist them around and around their meaning, doesn’t throw up smokescreens of emotions he doesn’t really feel to hide himself. Not like you. When you look at his face you know that’s what he’s really feeling, when he tells you something you know it’s true. For as long as you can remember you’ve rarely allowed yourself to show what you’re feeling, preferring to hide behind petty remarks, a scowling face, a carefully concocted mix of words selected specifically to obscure your true meaning. It’s not practical, you know, but it makes you feel safe somehow. If you can keep up appearances that you’re not weak, maybe you’ll believe it too.

Your insides feel like waves lapping up against a dam, pushing at your throat and the backs of your eyes. _Sometimes the simplest way is the best._ You always heard ‘simple’ as a synonym for ‘stupid.’ Every time, except once. Simple. Easier said than done, you think. Untangling your true emotions from the shades created, so entrenched in habit, seems a daunting task. It’s been so long. It’s hard for even you to differentiate them now--reality seems relative in the singular echo chamber of your head. No one exists to corroborate the truth of the events that seem at once indelibly burned into your head and tenuously unreal. What happened to you left scars, good and bad, that you can never erase, and yet. At times they seem to blur in your mind. The past, when viewed through one set of eyes, seems biased and mutable.

“If I promise to tell the truth, you have to promise you’ll believe me,” you say at last. Emir nods, as if to say _of course._

So you tell him. You start from your grandmother, who slept with a mage, you start from selling your parent’s possessions to attend classes at Clock Tower, you start from being laughed out of class after class until one day a package fell into your hands. You start with cutting the knot. The simplest solution.

He listens to you skim the very surface of magecraft--you’re not going to go into the differences between magic and thaumaturgy with Emir, or the Root, or anything like that. You tell him enough to understand that one, it’s quite real, and two, you’re not very good at it. You say this with a sulking tone that makes him laugh. The tension eases, a little.

You tell him about familiars, then about the Grail, again, only the roughest basics. Only what he needs to understand. You get to the part about servants, classes, and your breath catches a little. “They’re great figures,” you say, “Not just from history, but from myth as well. Their legend makes them real, I suppose. Really, I don’t know if they’re real at all, or just some manifestation of humanity’s belief in them. There were seven. Seven magi, seven servants. To give you an example, one of them was Gilgamesh, I think, from the Epic, and one was King Arthur, except she was a woman, apparently, and…” Your throat constricts. Pushing words out seems a Herculean effort. “Mine. And mine. Mine was. Was. Mine was.” You’re not sure you can do this after all, you stutter, stumble, your chest feels tight and full of air you can’t release--

“Alexander the Great.”

The trapped air in your lungs hisses out of you like a popped balloon. “Was it that obvious?” is all you can say.

Emir smiles and says, “A little.”

You try not to talk about Rider too much, you try to go over the Grail War and its events as quickly and informatively as possible, without dumping too much on Emir. It’s hard not to focus on Rider, though. Your story falls back to him again and again unconsciously. You don’t want to bore Emir or worse, isolate him with stories of individual conversations, but they slip through anyway.

“I hated him for a while,” you say, “I was sure he didn’t respect me. He didn’t listen to me or follow my directions, he just dragged me along like a stray kid wherever he wanted to go. It wasn’t exactly the kind of master and servant relationship I’d hoped for. It was about a day in when I met my teacher again, the one I stole the relic from. The first El Melloi. That was it for me, basically--I was unable to control my own servant, shown up in front of my peers again, probably for the last time. It felt like the culmination of my own failures, my own idiocy, my stupid far-reaching daydreams that I couldn’t think all the way through. I was so scared, and--”

The tears come suddenly, rushing hot and stinging and choking off your sentence. You try again, and your voice sounds pitiful to your own ears. “He said I was--he said I was brave.” The tears, once started, can’t be stemmed. Increasingly you stumble over your own words, your face hot and red with shame. “He said I was brave,” you repeat, and dissolve. The memory, now more vivid than ever, sears like a fresh wound and you hate yourself for crying like a child but you can’t stop.

Emir’s broad hand eclipses your back in a comforting gesture that nearly makes you puke with the intensity of the sob it evokes in response. Your body feels wracked and worn by the time you can take normal breaths again. You tell an abridged version of the rest of the story and, seemingly cried out, you get through the part on the bridge in a single breath without a tear.

You do almost cry again though, “It was so surreal when I came back,” you say in a wheezing voice, “And all his stuff was still there. All the chip bags on the floor, all my stuff shoved in a corner to make way for him to sleep, his--his stupid video game shit.”

“The t-shirt?” Emir offers.

“Can’t believe you remember that,” you grumble, “Yes, that. Those games aren’t even that great anyway, he just wanted them because they had a world map on them. He said it was fitting for a king of conquerors to wear the world on his chest, or some bullshit like that. Idiot.” You neglect to mention that you own all the games anyway, as well as their spinoffs--Emir already knows, they’re stacked on a shelf near your TV. You return most games that you finish, but those ones you keep because you’re sentimental, or as you would call it, an idiot. Same thing, essentially.

“Seeing all his stuff there made it feel so normal, like he was about to come back, like he’d just gone out to get snacks or something. I think it took a while for it to hit me that that wasn’t the case.” You talk a little after that, about coming back to Clock Tower, about salvaging your dead teacher’s work, about becoming an instructor. You make a vague mention about dismantling the Grail, trying to make it clear you don’t want to talk much about that. Emir is unsubtle at best, but seems to pick up on your implication.

“That’s about it,” you say. You feel like you’ve been hollowed out with a spoon, but at the same time you feel lighter for it. Emir holds out his arms and you let him drag you into his lap. His chest is warm and the rise and fall of it against your back lulls you into a dreamy sort of calm. “You’d better keep your promise,” you say, trying to sound threatening.

“It sounds a little like a video game I played one time,” he says, “But I don’t think you’re the type who could make all that up, or even if you could, I don’t think you’d do that all just to lead me on. I trust you.” He always does this, he says these heavy things like I trust you, says them as easily as he breathes. You’re a little jealous. You’re not even close to that point.

“Stupid,” is all you say in response, because that’s the point that you’re at. He ruffles your hair and you elbow him in the ribs halfheartedly. You want to tell him thanks, somehow, thanks for listening, thanks for not calling me crazy, thanks for being here. Instead you just say, “Don’t leave,” quietly, into the air in front of you.

Emir holds you tighter and says, “I won’t.”


End file.
